


Happy Accidents

by Mad_Maudlin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Philosophy, Theology, plato - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-09
Updated: 2010-12-09
Packaged: 2017-10-13 14:31:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/138398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Maudlin/pseuds/Mad_Maudlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is not a religious man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Accidents

**Author's Note:**

> A contribution to Wordstrings' Christmas Comment Ficathon. Warning: may contain neo-Platonism.

If you had asked John whether Sherlock Holmes was particularly religious, he would've said no: quite the opposite, really. Sherlock never mentioned God except to take His name in vain; he showed no particular awareness of any festival that wasn't also a bank holiday; he had never to John's knowledge even set foot in any place of worship, be it church, temple or mosque. Well, no—there had been the case of the stolen altarpiece, but he'd called the vicar a tosser and revealed the choirmaster was having an affair with the head of the lady's league during the course of that one, which really didn't help anything.

Irreligious though he might be, Sherlock wasn't quite the Scrooge John had feared, either. One day mid-December, he'd brought home a little tree and a long list of arguments as to why it should stand lit and unmolested in the sitting room until at least Boxing Day, only to find Sherlock helping Mrs. Hudson unravel endless strings of fairy lights and tinsel in many colors. "Oh, good, you did opt for the plastic kind," was all he'd said to the tree, and while he didn't help John decorate it he didn't adulterate it in any significant fashion either, save two baubles that vanished abruptly, and that might've been an accident.

There was a time to be suspicious of Sherlock's motives, and a time to avert your eyes from the horse's dentition. John wasn't sure which one this was but he was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

John himself didn't have much patience for the excesses of the season—too many overwrought pop stars moaning out carols, too many maudlin films, nearly toxic levels of glitter and sugar in the shops. Except for the tree, and the occasional carol that wormed its way into his head, John didn't impose any festivities on Sherlock, and Sherlock did not seem liable to instigate anything himself. Christmas Day was one of four times a year John typically attended church (the other three being Easter, Remembrance Sunday and one random day between mid-May and early August when he felt vaguely guilty) but John knew better than raise the topic with Sherlock or, God help him, invite him to come with.

Christmas Eve he volunteered to work late in the surgery so some of the doctors with kids could take off a bit early; it was busy enough, with patients trying to squeak in a last appointment before the long weekend. Sherlock texted him around five, but John didn't get a chance to check it until just before his last patient toddled in complaining about her arthritis.

 _Arson on Notting Hill. Meet me there. SH_

 _The police called you in on Christmas Eve?_ John sent back.

 _Police don't know it's an arson yet. SH_

By the time John had wrapped everything up and gotten out there by Tube, of course, Sherlock had not only convinced the police it was an arson rather than tragically malfunctioning decorations, he'd also fingered the culprit (a greedy uncle) and the motive (insurance fraud). "I'm glad you're happy about it all," John said, walking at Sherlock's side—it wasn't all that far back to Baker Street, taking Sherlock's shortcuts.

"My gift to the family," Sherlock said. "They won't have to worry about that particular gold-digging relative ever again and the father can see to the status of the trust after Christmas."

"They lost almost everything they had," John pointed out.

"No injuries," Sherlock countered. "And there wouldn't have been a crime at all if they weren't ridiculously well-insured to begin with. I daresay it's as close to a happy ending as we typically get, don't you think?"

John studied Sherlock's profile for a moment. "Is this you being optimistic? Because it's a bit scary."

Sherlock huffed. "I thought you'd be proud of me, John. Nobody's died and I haven't complained once."

That did draw a laugh out of him. "Well done you, then," he said, nudging his shoulder a bit. Sherlock smirked at him.

Their route—well, Sherlock's route, John hadn't a clue where they were going—took them past a modern-looking church with a large, almost gaudy star of white fairy lights and silver paper hanging from a tree. As if to ensure there were no misunderstandings, strings of lights had been strung from the bottom of the star to the plastic Nativity scene below; perhaps that was meant to light up, too, but happily at the moment it was dark. John barely gave it a glance, but for some reason Sherlock stopped, and studied the display.

John waited a few minutes, and when Sherlock showed no signs of leaving he doubled back to the fence. On second glance, the star wasn't that bad—someone had clearly put some effort into it—and it looked sort of pretty in the tree, with the remnants of last week's snow stubbornly clinging to its branches. Sherlock, for whatever reasons, was watching the star with a curiously thoughtful expression. Almost like he was meditating.

"Deducing the true meaning of Christmas?" John asked, after a bit longer.

Sherlock exhaled. "That would be rather contrary to the point, wouldn't you agree?"

"...start from the top with that one, would you?"

Sherlock smiled, and looked back at the tatty start. "I may not be a person of faith, John, but I do appreciate a good mystery. Are you familiar at all with Neo-Platonism?"

"Can't say I am," he admitted, while wondering how it could possibly be more relevant than, say, the Solar system.

"It was among of the foundations of medieval Christian thinking," Sherlock explained. "Among other things, it relied on the concept of _accidents_ \--that our senses could be deceived, such that the true essence of a thing could be unrelated to what it seemed to be. That something which looked, smelled, felt and tasted like a rather dry cracker could in fact be human flesh, or an unremarkable squalling infant a manifestation of the divine."

John considered this for a moment. "I'd expect that sort of reasoning to drive you mad. "

"Oh, of course," Sherlock said quickly. "It's the antithesis of empiricism and probably single-handedly responsible for some of the most pervasive logical fallacies known to humankind."

John nodded. "And that would be why we're standing out here in the cold discussing it, yes?"

Sherlock sighed again, releasing a plume of fog like dragon's breath. "I admit there are times when I find the idea of something unassailable by logical means rather...intriguing."

"You're admitting something like that might exist?" John asked, positively floored.

"I am not precluding its existence, simply because I have yet to encounter an example," Sherlock corrected. "That would also be unempirical. Not to mention arrogant."

"And God knows you're _never_ arrogant," John said, stifling a laugh.

Sherlock glared at him and finally continued past the church, into what passed for the dark of London's night. "Come on. It's freezing out here, your shoulder is bothering you and Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Turner should be opening the advocaat in the next fifteen minutes; we had better keep out of their way once they do."

At that, John let the laugh out, and broke into a jog to catch up.


End file.
